


don't try me (i'm untouchable)

by amosanguis



Series: Immortals AU: MLB, NFL, & Black Sails Edition [4]
Category: Barbarians Rising (TV), Black Sails
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Getting Together, Highlander Immortals, M/M, POV Alternating, title from a song
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-04
Updated: 2019-02-04
Packaged: 2019-10-22 02:49:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17654612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amosanguis/pseuds/amosanguis
Summary: “Billy,” Charles starts, “are you dead, too?”“No, I’m not dead,” Billy says, “and neither are you.”





	1. June 1716: The Journey Back to Europe (Billy)

**Author's Note:**

> \--Title from "Built for this Time" by Zayde Wølf.  
> \--I don’t have a full chapter count yet because I’m a flaky bitch who can’t stay focused. There’ll be a lot of chapters and they’ll probably (definitely) be out of linear order. So this will be marked complete because, honestly, I've been working on this AU for about three years now and I doubt it'll ever be *fully* finished. I'll just post what I've got.  
> \--Billy is Arminius ( _Barbarians Rising_ )  
> \--Anthony Rizzo is the first baseman for the Chicago Cubs  
> \--Unbeta'd, please forgive any mistakes.

-z-

 

Billy doesn’t wait for Charles to wake up. Instead, just as his body’s been taken down from the noose, but has yet to be put up in the square, Billy steals in in the dark of night and slides a knife into Charles’s heart, breaking the blade off at the hilt to hide it – making sure Charles wouldn’t wake quite yet – and buries him among The Wrecks.

Billy needed time.

He needed to finish his business in Nassau before he’d be able to take Charles away. That alone would be a chore that Billy wasn’t looking forward to – but Billy was the only Immortal in the area and he knew that when Charles woke up, they had to be long gone (Blackbeard would be pissed, but the man wasn’t here, and Billy had to get Charles underground _now_ ).

 

-

 

Billy watches as Woodes Rogers sets his trap for the incoming pirate fleet and realizes that it’s over for them here. Billy could read the end of the age of piracy in the winds and it was time to leave.

Quietly, he starts preparing.

 

-

 

As soon as he sees Blackbeard give chase to Rogers, Billy digs Charles up and boards the sloop he’s hidden away, sailing quietly into a night without any moon and as fast as the wind will take him – heading north.

He spares a moment of thought for those he’s leaving behind – men he’s called brothers and a cause almost worth fighting for. But Billy knows a lost war when he sees one, he’s seen so many in his long, long life.

Sure, there are friends he could call on, another sword or three with hundreds of years of experience could turn the tide in Nassau’s favor – but in the end, it wouldn’t be worth the risk of exposure. It would be one thing to see one Charles Vane rise from the dead, it would be quite another to put an entire Immortal army behind his name

So, Billy abandons Nassau and her war with civilization.

He fishes for his food and collects rain water; resorting to drinking the blood of his catches when he runs out of fresh water.

He sails past the Carolinas, past Virginia, before finally deciding to pull into Boston harbor. He tells the harbormaster there that he’s got one body, a shipmate passed from sickness, that the rest of the crew had been taken, too, but had been buried at sea.

“I promised I’d get him home,” Billy says, the lie sliding off his tongue easily as he slips into his native German accent.

“I will help any way I can,” the harbormaster says, his eyes going distant in a way Billy knows it’s a situation the man himself is familiar with.

Billy sells the sloop and whatever cargo was aboard and buys clothes and food for himself, and a coffin and funeral suit Charles. He doesn’t wait for the sun to set before he asks the harbormaster for passage on the next boat to France.

 

-

 

In Europe, Billy lets himself relax. He was back on solid ground, in familiar territory. He makes a withdrawal from a bank he’s had money sitting in for going on thirty years, before settling himself in a hotel and seeing to it that Charles’s body would remain undisturbed in its coffin.

Then he pens out a letter to The House that simply reads: _I’m coming home. Have my room and one more made ready. Prep the northeastern outer cabin, as well._

He writes out another letter: _New student. Cutlass. I will be at the house when it’s ready, I’ll pay you then._ He includes a few relevant measurements – Charles’s height and reach – before he closes out the letter.

He sends them off and the next day, buys a small wagon and two vanner horses, before loading the wagon with provisions and Charles, and sets out for Germany.

 

-

 

The road home is long, and it’s made longer when the snow starts to fall.

Billy watches the snow and grins, reveling in the fat flakes drifting down lazily from the sky. After having gone so long without seeing snow, the sight of it makes coming home _feel_ so real.

“The first snow of the year,” says a man, a fellow traveler on the road who had been steadily catching up to Billy’s cart, slowing his horse to a trot to keep pace with Billy’s cart. The man is speaking German and the sound of his native tongue goes even further to helping Billy feel settled.

They speak for a while, Billy telling of his travels to America and the West Indies, how happy he is to be back home, how sad he is that his brother in the coffin was taken by fever before he could see their home again.

The man himself is a businessman, named Charlie Schreyvogel, just returned from his travels in Russia and France and Spain, finally heading home – a small town just down the next turn and, if Billy would like to stop for the night, his family owned the inn and Charlie could get him the discounted rate.

Billy hesitates, warring with his desire to push through the night and get back to The House, but also wanting to rest the horses to make better time the next day. After a moment, he decides to go for the latter option, and Charlie eagerly gives him directions.

“I’m going to go on ahead,” he says, “and get you all set up.”

“I’ll see you soon,” Billy says, shifting the reins so he could reach out and shake Charlie’s hand. “And thank you.”

Charlie just grins and nods before he’s taking off.

 

-

 

By the time Billy is entering Charlie’s small town, the snow has blanketed much of everything and the exhilaration of seeing it has worn off, and Billy almost misses the heat and humidity of Nassau.

A large woman with red cheeks and redder hair greets Billy at the door of the inn and calls out to him, “You must be the man my Charlie was speaking of! William, was it?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Billy says as he pulls the wagon to a stop, watches as two hands come around the corner – one gently grabbing the halter of one of the horses, and the other moving towards the back of the wagon. Billy stands, wincing at the pains in his back from sitting in the driver’s seat for so long, and jumps off the wagon.

“Charlie told us of your poor brother,” the woman continues. “We’ll see to it that he’s well-looked after. As well as your horses. Now, come inside and warm yourself – you must be frozen to the bone.”

Billy inclines his head and lets himself be ushered inside, says, “ _Danke_.”

The woman, Teresa, settles Billy at a table near a large fire place, just a few steps away from the staircase that lead to the rooms on the second floor. She’s gone and back quickly with a large mug of beer and a hot meal.

Billy’s stomach rumbles at the sight and, as soon as the food is on the table and he’s thanked Teresa profusely, Billy digs in – looking up only when Charlie settles himself on the opposite side of Billy, a plate of food in one hand, and a beer in the other.

“Welcome home,” Charlie says, raising his beer.

Billy clacks his mug against Charlie’s and says, “You, as well.”

 

-

 

Billy leaves early the next morning, happily accepting pastries from Teresa and promising he’ll stay again when next he passes through. He checks the horses’ harnesses and double-checks that Charles Vane is still dead in his coffin, before climbing up into the driver’s seat and clicking his tongue, flicking the reins gently, and setting off.

He meets a few more travelers on the road, most of them eagerly catching him up on the goings on of the country – the politics, the fashions, any change in border – and how they fear more changes may come should one of their neighbors get an inclination towards war.

Billy takes it all in, separates gossip from fact where he can.

There’s one more night spent in an inn only half as warm and welcoming as the Schreyvogels’ and, just before Billy can pull himself up into the driver’s seat to start the last leg of his journey, he hears a voice call out to him.

“Master Arminius.”

Billy freezes in place for only half-a-second before he whirls around – and there is Adé, flanked left and right by four more of The House’s staff, men Billy has never met but whom must have been hired by Adé.

Adewale is a Haitian black man who was once large and powerfully built but was now stooped and hunched with age; they had met in Boston nearly forty years before Billy’s kidnapping and subsequent career as a pirate, which itself had lasted five.

Those years had seen Billy bring Adé back to the Teutoburg Estate, to the House, hiring him on first as a simple servant, then a manager of household staff, then the head of all staff. Adé was smart and quick and readily commanded the attention of all who worked for him.

So even after being freed by Flint, Billy saw no immediate need to return to The House, not when he knew it was in Adé’s capable hands. Adé wrote often and in German to keep Billy up to speed on moneys spent, new hires, and how the stable of forest horses fared.

The forest horses.

The horses of the Teutoburg Estate were known far and wide as the best – they were the strongest and hardiest, gentle in nature and always eager to work. Billy was eager to see them again, to see what the breeding program he had left in place had produced in his absence.

“Adé,” Billy greets, throwing his arms open wide as Adé dismounts his horse and walks into Billy’s embrace. The hug is brief before they are both pulling away. “It is good to see you, old friend.”

“And you,” Adé says, taking a step back and taking Billy in. Then he steps back in close and lowers his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “You look much the same, I must say, _old_ friend.”

Billy laughs at the gentle teasing. Adé knew about Immortals, about Billy’s status amongst them, had figured it out late one evening when he’d found Billy behind a barn, breathing heavy and soaked with blood and a decapitated “guest” at his feet.

Adé then turns and motions to one of the other servants, calls out something in Spanish that Billy pretends not to understand. The man dismounts from his horse and hands the reins to Billy before he climbs into the driver’s seat of the wagon. Billy swings easily into the saddle; he’s always preferred riding to driving.

“Tell me about your travels,” Adé says, turning his horse and following Billy out onto the main road.

Billy does. He tells Adé about Flint and Long John Silver and the plots for first the _Urca_ gold and then for the heart and soul of Nassau. Adé listens with rapt attention, interjects here and asks questions there, keeping their voices lowered so that the conversation stays just between them.

One of those questions is, “And are any of these people you tell me about the one in the casket?”

Billy smirks – Adé was always quick. “Yes,” Billy says. “Charles Vane.”

“Well,” Adé says, tsking and not trying very hard to hide his concern, “I hope his resurrection goes well.”

“He’ll be off the estate in a year,” Billy says with a wave of his hand. “I’ll teach him what he needs to know and get him set up somewhere else. If he tries to go back to Nassau, I’ll take his head myself.”

Adé sends his employer a look.

Billy ignores it, urging his horse into a canter. More eager than ever to get home.

 

-

 

For 1700 years, _home_ for Billy was the Rhine and the Teutoburg forest. It was the mansion he built for himself and the horses he raised. He surrounded himself with an almost constantly rotating human staff, only trusting a few with his secret so that they could make his excuses for him to the other elites in the area and to keep the fresh staff trained to the standard he wanted.

Not that Billy himself needed much tending to, but the mansion and the stables and the grounds that surrounded both very much did, and with these things, Billy was meticulous. He liked order to everything. Probably because he knew that, once he stepped outside of its bounds, disorder was everywhere – taking the form of ever-changing cultures and borders, of Immortals who wanted his head and humans who wanted his body for its strength.

The latter was the case when, in 1711, Billy had decided to take a quick jaunt up to London – then going by the name of Marcus Hofmeister – not for any particular reason other than that it had been nearly twenty years since he’d been last. He’d no more than climbed off his horse before he’d felt something hit the back of his head and the world had faded to black. When next he woke, his world was swaying from side to side and there were chains around his wrists.

In the next few months, as he fought against his captors and they responded by withholding his rations until his weight had all but melted away, showing nearly every bone in his body, Billy Bones had been born. He shed the name Marcus when Flint and his crew took the ship carrying him and called himself Billy Manderly – the name of the dead man still shackled next to him whose sunken eyes stared out at nothing.

It’s been five years since that day. Five years since Hal Gates had looked Billy up and down and said, “Nothing but bones, you are,” as another of the _Walrus_ crew shoved the captain of Billy’s prison ship to his knees and Hal had said to Billy, “All yours, if you want ‘im?”

Billy hadn’t hesitated.

Just took the pistol from Hal’s loose grip and aimed and fired. Even Flint had been impressed. Not that he, nor anyone else, could have known that that captain wasn’t Billy’s first kill.

And in that not-knowing, Hal had quirked an eyebrow even as he took back his pistol and said, “Would you like to come with us, Mr. Bones?”

“Give me something to eat,” Billy said, casually wiping the dead man’s blood from his face, “and I’ll go with you anywhere.”

Hal had laughed himself nearly sick at that before he took Billy’s elbow and helped him over to the _Walrus_.

Four years later – after Billy’s been left to the ocean only to be picked up by Captain Hume and tortured and then returned to Nassau, after Billy’s dealt with Dufresne and the would-be mutineers – Billy just has to take one look at Flint’s face to know that he’s one that killed Hal, and he almost puts a bullet in the captain’s head for it. Instead, he decides to ride it out, to bide his time. Because Billy can read the change in the air – he knows what’s coming, that England, just like Rome long before her, won’t stand an insolent colony much longer. Nassau’s pirate days were numbered.

The first time Billy had met Blackbeard, there was a flash of recognition from Blackbeard before his face went carefully blank.

(Billy never does find out why or how Blackbeard recognizes him, but he hears from another Immortal named Antony, the bladesmith from whom he’s commissioned a new sword for Charles, that Blackbeard was younger than Billy, but older than Antony; and that he’d been a Roman senator as a human and had journeyed with a group of religious refugees aboard the _Mayflower_ to the New World when it was still called such.

“Maybe you were in Rome at the same time?” Antony asks, stretched out next to Billy on the dark stretch of beach. It’d been the only time Antony had ever visited Nassau and Billy knows the reason for the trip was because of Antony’s near-insatiable need to _know_ every Immortal. Yet, try as he might, Antony never does quite get that face-to-face with Blackbeard.

Billy snorts. “That was such a long time ago,” he says. “How could anyone remember such things?”

Antony shrugs and smirks, says, “You do leave quite the impression.”

Billy lets his head loll to the side as he glares. Antony just grins and leans in quick and pecks with a chaste kiss to his nose. Then Antony is standing and brushing the sand away from his clothes.

“I wouldn’t worry too much about him,” Antony says. “From what you’ve told me, he’s far too invested in that pre-Immortal running around this island to care much about what you’re doing. Who was—”

“Charles,” Billy answers before Antony can finish. “Charles Vane. Captain of the _Ranger_.”

“Yeah, well,” Antony shrugs as he walks over to the horse he has tied to a fallen palm, “just mind your own business. From what I’ve gathered from you and from back in England, things will get worse around here before they get better.”

“I don’t plan on sticking around for all that,” Billy says, watching as Antony swings himself into the saddle. “I’ll be heading back to the House before too long.”

“Tell me,” Antony says, leaning forward, “is being among people really so dreadful that you can only stand it for a decade before hiding away for a century?”

Without hesitation, Billy answers, “Yes, of course it is.”

Antony’s laughter rings in Billy’s ears long after he rides away.)

 

-

 

They pull up to a small hunting cabin that sat on the northeastern most edge of the estate’s borders, nestled deep in the thick woods. He sends Adé and the others on ahead, leaving himself with the cart and one of the horses, which Adé tied to the hitch in front of the cabin before climbing onto the back of another horse and riding up to the main house.

Once he was alone, Billy opens Charles Vane’s coffin and sets to work.

 

-z-

 

End.


	2. December 1716: Training (Charles)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles is pretty sure he's dead until Billy definitely makes him wish he was.

-z-

 

Charles jolts awake, gasping as his hand goes to his neck – very distinctly remembering the feeling of thick rope and choking. His memories slam into him – creating a ghost and chasing a carriage; rotting in chains as he waited for sentencing; Billy Bones. Meeting Billy’s eyes across the crowd and shaking his head as Charles makes himself walks off the cart.

Wherever he was now, it must be the afterlife.

And it was pretty cozy.

Charles is on a small bed in a cabin – a fire roaring healthily beside him. There were no sounds other than the fire, nothing he could smell. When he goes to stand, Charles notices he’s dressed in a fancy black suit.

“The fuck is this?” he asks the empty cabin, his voice raspier than usual from disuse.

He goes to the window and at first, all he can see is white, and he thinks that maybe whatever afterlife he’s been sent to didn’t bother with scenery. But then his eyes adjust, and he sees that he’s in a snow-covered wood.

He’s about to turn away from the window and try the door when he spots a figure riding between the trees – the figure elicits _something_ in him, something that feels the way a warning bell sounds, something like static building at the base of his neck as if there were a looming lightning storm. The figure stops close to the cabin and dismounts the large horse; he’s wearing a hooded traveling coat, thick and heavy and still in good condition, and he’s almost as tall as the horse.

Charles ducks away from the window and starts searching for anything to protect himself with. He settles on the fire poker and is just reaching for it when the door to the cabin swings open.

“You won’t need that,” says the figure in a voice that Charles definitely recognizes.

“ _Billy_?” he asks, whirling around to face the door.

The man himself swipes back the hood with one hand as he brandishes a bundle with the other. “Forgot this at the main house,” he says, setting it on a table Charles hadn’t noticed before. The table had four chairs around it and was in front of a little stove and wash basin. “It’s food. Trust me, you’re going to be ravenous in just a few minutes. How it could have slipped my mind – I couldn’t possibly fathom.”

Charles tries to process all of that. Main house? Hungry? Did people get hungry after they were dead? When did Billy’s accent change?

“Billy,” he starts, “are you dead, too?”

“No, I’m not dead,” Billy says, taking off his coat and throwing it onto the bed Charles had been laying in before settling into a chair at the table, folding his hands in front of him as he levels a look at Charles that freezes him in place, “and neither are you.”

Charles blinks down at this Billy before him – gone were the clothes stained with sweat and dirt and blood; in their place, Billy wore a white, long sleeved shirt with a black vest, and black trousers. He was clean shaven, but his eyes still held their same tired look.

“But, I remember—”

“It’s been six months since you were hanged,” Billy says, the tone of his voice never wavering nor changing, it stayed smooth and easy as if he were just talking about the weather. “You were dead, but now you’re not. I imagine you’ll die a few more times before it finally takes.”

Billy turns to the parcel and begins to open it, revealing honeyed cakes and bites of salted meat, and pushes it all towards Charles.

“Welcome to Immortality, Charles Vane. Sit down and eat, we have a lot to discuss.”

 

-

 

Charles eats (the food was disgustingly good; Billy had been right because as soon as the smell of the cakes hit Charles, Charles’s hunger had made itself known with a loud rumble) and listens to Billy talk and tries not to panic – but Billy’s voice is soothing and it’s not until he gets to the part where Charles isn’t allowed to head back to Nassau that Charles begins to get angry.

“I can do whatever the fuck I want,” Charles snaps because tasty food be damned if it means turning his back on that island – not with his newfound Immortality. Imagine the soldiers he could take down if he wasn’t worried about bullets and—

“Charles, that is a war long lost,” Billy says. “You’re part of something much bigger now. You need to stay here so I can train you. After that, you’ll be free to go wherever you like. But not until then.”

“You can’t keep me here,” Charles yells, standing up from the table.

Billy blinks and leans back in his chair, not at all perturbed in the face of Charles’s anger. “You’re a good fighter, Charles,” he says, the sudden compliment making Charles pause, “but you won’t finish the decade without me.” Then he’s standing slowly and grabbing his coat and heading for the door. “I’m not going to let that happen, I don’t believe in letting new Immortals flounder on their own – especially not one of your notoriety.”

“You kept me dead for months,” Charles says, raising his voice again.

“I had to get you back here before you woke up,” Billy says. “No way was I going to risk you trying to make it back to Nassau after you had been executed in front of so many. Pirates are a superstitious lot and you would have just as soon been burned at the stake as celebrated for your miraculous return from the dead.”

Charles knows he can’t argue with that logic. As much as he hates to admit it. Instead he asks, “And where is _here_? Where am I?”

“You’re at my Teutoberg estate on the Rhine,” Billy says. Then he gestures to the cabin they’re in. “This is a hunting cabin – I have a few of them scattered around the property. I didn’t want you waking up in the main house, it’s a bit more,” he pauses, as if searching for the right word, “opulent. I didn’t know how you’d react.”

“You’re _rich_?” Charles asks, not quite able to hide his sneer.

“Yes,” Billy says, shrugging into his coat. “And, if you pay attention, in seventeen-hundred years, you will be, too.”

Charles snorts.

 

-

 

 _Opulent_ did not seem like an adequate enough word to describe the mansion before Charles – whose mouth dropped further and further as he took in what lay before him.

The main house was three stories high, with a harsh stone façade, that seemed to spread a mile out to Charles’s left and right. Dead ivy crawled up the walls in places, reaching up towards the sharply-slanted and shingled roof. Charles shivers and pulls the coat Billy had brought him tighter around himself – the cold of Germany’s winter not something he was used to.

“I’m going to put the horse away,” Billy says, giving Charles’s shoulder a light shove towards the door. “Adé is waiting for you inside – he’ll show you to your room and then to the dining room.”

Charles glares at Billy for the shove, but Billy’s already turned away and pulling himself up onto the horse – turning it towards the left and cantering away.

 

-

 

Inside, a man Charles assumes is Adé is waiting for him. An old black man with a Haitian accent, Adé is efficient in his directions of how Charles is to get to his room and from there, to the kitchen and dining area, the library, the gardens, the stables – and it’s a wealth of information all at once, but Charles forces himself to pay attention.

“Are you—” Charles hesitates at his bedroom door, pointedly looking at Adé’s dark skin.

“I am not a slave,” Adé says, filling in Charles’s words for him. “Not anymore. Arminius saw to that.”

Charles blinks at the name _Arminius_ and cocks his head.

Adé smirks. “Ask him about it,” he says. Then he gestures to the room and adds, “But first, change. Relax. There are clothes in the closet and shoes by the door. I will be seeing to the dinner preparations, so someone else will be by in an hour to let you know when the meal is ready.”

“Thanks,” Charles says, tone subdued as he steps into his new room. As a ship’s captain, Charles was somewhat used to issuing orders and directives, to people scurrying out of his way or standing by to take his word – but this. Adé? It was something else entirely and Charles didn’t know how he’d adjust.

The room itself was large and ornate, the bed tucked neatly against a wall just underneath a large and curtained window, the drapes pulled open to allow in the winter sunlight. Beside it was a hearth, in which a fire was going steadily, with more logs piled neatly beside it.

On the bed was a set of clothes – a shirt and vest and trousers, similar to what Billy had been wearing. Charles glances in the closet and sees even more clothing, all simple but well-made. He saw them as the trappings of an aristocrat playing at being humble and tries not to roll his eyes at them even as he marvels at how they feel between his fingers.

Charles dresses in the clothes laid out for him for the lack of anything else to do, but he forgoes the vest. Then he moves over to the window, staring out at the snow-covered landscape – trying to process all that Billy had told him – and, rolling the name _Arminius_ around in his head, all that Billy had _not_ told him.

 

-

 

“Who is Arminius?” Charles asks, his hands clasped behind his back, just after Adé has left them in the dining room – the food steaming hot on the table beside them.

Billy purses his lips, glances at the door Adé’s just left through.

“Me,” Billy says, gesturing towards the food, an invitation for Charles to sit and eat as Billy himself pulls out a chair and sits. When Charles has taken his own seat, Billy continues. “Arminius is my First name. Well,” he cuts into his slab of meat, spears it onto a fork and raises it to his lips, “it’s the first that I remember. If I had one before it, it’s been lost to time.”

Charles cuts into his own steak and pretends he doesn’t know the feeling. Then he switches topics.

“These clothes are ridiculous,” he says.

“Enjoy them while you’re here,” Billy says, his voice hard, but not quite cutting. “Your life will be long, and you won’t always get to enjoy the simplest comforts like a shirt that fits or doesn’t rip if you move wrong.”

“Aren’t you just a ray of sunshine,” Charles snaps.

Billy quirks an eyebrow and gives him a look Charles is sure is supposed to mean something Charles isn’t quite getting, before turning back to his meal. The silence that stretches between them isn’t uncomfortable – Charles’s hunger was back and he focuses only on sating it.

When they’re finished, two servants enter, keeping their eyes averted as they clear the dishes.

Charles is about to ask what’s next, but then Billy’s standing.

“Go to bed, Charles,” Billy says, his lips a thin line as he pointedly doesn’t look at Charles himself. “Tomorrow is going to be a long day.” Then he’s raising his fingers to the bridge of his nose, a gesture betraying his own exhaustion that, in the coming centuries, Charles will become all too familiar with, and adds, “It’s actually going to be a long year. Get your rest while you can.”

Charles wants to argue – every fiber of his being wishing desperately to rebel against any order given – but there was a weight that had begun to settle around Billy’s shoulders, a heaviness that reminds Charles that things are different now. He isn’t in charge here – not in this too large house, not in these too soft clothes, not with a too full of a stomach.

And there was something else.

Something deep within him, a new sense that seemed to be whispering to him that Billy was something to be feared – it spoke of age and power, it was raw and electric and primal.

Charles has spent almost his entire life surrounded by powerful men, so he knew what to look for.

For so long, Billy had portrayed himself as someone almost meek – he’d protect his _Walrus_ brothers, sure, but when sat next to the likes of Flint, Billy would seem to almost shrink in on himself and let himself fade into the background.

But here, lit by Germany’s weak winter sunlight reflecting off the stunning snow, Billy had shed all of that. He’d grown into his stature, stood taller.

And it all forces Charles _to pay attention_.

 

-

 

Billy shakes Charles awake before the sun has even risen. He doesn’t say anything even as Charles curses and tries to shove him away – Charles had tossed and turned all night, not used to the overwhelming comfort of the bed he lay in, and had only just fallen asleep before Billy had walked in.

Then Billy’s grabbing Charles by the ankle and simply pulling him out of the bed.

“You fucking—” Charles growls, fighting to get out from underneath his blankets and get his fist in Billy’s face, but then Billy is gone from the room.

Charles is glaring at the ceiling and trying to control his rage when Billy comes back, two cups of something hot and steaming in hand – and leaning against the doorframe.

“Get used to it,” he says, ignoring Charles’s heated look as Charles stands. Silently, he walks over to Charles and hands him one of the steaming cups. “Drink,” he orders softly, before stepping back. With a jerk of his head over his shoulder, he adds, “Come along, I want to get the basics in before lunch.”

“Basics of what?” Charles snaps, taking a sip of the (stupidly delicious, because of course it is) coffee – bitter, spiced slightly with rum and a dash of sugar.

Leading Charles out of the bedroom and down the hall, Billy sips at his own coffee before he answers.

“I’ve told you the rules, already,” Billy says. “One Immortal to a fight; no fighting on holy ground, no fighting with one who is unarmed; there can be only one. I’ve already sent for the best bladesmith and commissioned a cutlass for you, something you’re used to – he should be here with it within a month. Until then,” Billy pushes open a door that leads into a study, setting his cup down onto a desk, next to a stack of papers, “you’ll be training with the swords I have on hand.”

Charles fights the urge to roll his eyes. “I already know how to fight,” he says.

Billy barely spares him a glance as he picks up a sheet a paper, skims it, and sets it down again.

“You know how to fight humans,” Billy says, picking up another paper and skimming it; then he’s turning away and leading them out of the study through a different door and down another hall. “You don’t know how to fight Immortals.”

“And you’re going to teach me?” Charles asks Billy’s back.

“Yes,” Billy answers, glancing over his shoulder before he turns a corner Charles hadn’t noticed coming up – then they’re in the foyer Charles remembers from the day before.

Adé is standing there, two swords in hand.

“I got the reports,” Billy says to Adé. “I want the mare well looked after.”

“Yes, sir,” Adé says, smirking as he holds the blades out to Billy, hilt first.

 

-

 

“Are you trying to freeze me to death before we even get started?” Charles snarls, shivering as he stamps his feet and adjusts his hold on the sword – it’s long and heavy and nothing like what he’s used to.

“In an hour, I promise you won’t feel the cold,” Billy says by way of an answer as he leads them deeper into the forest.

Before Charles can bite out a reply, they come into a fenced-in clearing.

“Besides,” Billy says, hopping the fence, “you will see death many times today.”

Charles has just landed beside Billy, is sucking in the air to ask what the fuck that was supposed to mean, when Billy whirls on him – too fast for Charles to avoid, much faster than he’s ever seen Billy move – and buries his sword to the hilt into Charles’s gut.

“Lesson one, boy,” Billy grits out, looming as the force of the thrust pushes Charles back against the fence, pinning him there, “ _never_ let your guard down, even amongst those considered friends.”

 

-

 

Billy doesn’t hold back, and Charles learns quickly just how lucky he’d been the few times he’d fought Billy before.

“It wasn’t luck,” Billy says, eyeing Charles where he sat in the snow, heaving and trying to catch his breath; Billy himself barely even winded. “I liked you, Charles, I found you interesting. And there was always that off-chance you’d grow old and die on your own – and there’d be no Immortality waiting for you when you woke.”

When Charles can finally find the strength to stand, he says, “I want to go back.”

“I’m sorry,” Billy says. “But this is the way things are.”

“What about everyone on Nassau?” Charles asks, ignoring the way the blood on his clothes was beginning to freeze over.

“I won’t tell you that you’ll forget about them soon enough,” Billy says, shaking out his arms and lowering into an attack stance. “But right now, you have other things to worry about. From now on, the stakes are much, much higher.”

Billy then lunges forward, and Charles is barely able to block the blow. Billy suddenly pulls back and Charles falls – but before he can land in the snow, Billy catches him. Charles snarls and tries to throw a punch, but it’s weak and misses Billy easily.

Then Billy’s tightening his hold on Charles, steadying him as he says, “C’mon, I think it’s time for lunch.”

As if on cue, a bell rings in the distance – easily heard in the muted forest around them.

Charles tries not to lean too heavily on Billy they walk back, but if he does, Billy says nothing about it – keeping his arm around Charles’s waist.

 

-

 

Lunch consists of stew and bread – the best Charles has ever had. Together, he and Billy eat in an almost companionable silence, broken only by Charles’s exhausted hands shaking his silverware against the bowl.

After the dishes have been cleared away, Billy leans back in his chair and sighs, closing his eyes for the briefest moment before opening them again.

“The bladesmith I contacted,” he says, staring at his cup of beer, “is an Immortal. He’s nearly as old as I am; luckily,” he looks up at Charles, pausing until Charles meets his gaze, “he has little interest in taking heads. You’re safe around him.”

“Is that important to you?” Charles asks before he can help himself.

“Yes,” Billy answers. And the lack of hesitation twists something inside Charles.

“Really?” Charles presses. “You’ve killed me three times today. I didn’t think—”

Billy holds a hand up, effectively stopping Charles mid-sentence as he leans forward. “You’re my student,” Billy says, his eyes filling with determination and seriousness and something akin to protectiveness. “Charles, every hurt I’m going to put you through _will_ make you stronger, _will_ help to ensure you see out at least this remaining century and hold your own against those older than you.”

Billy leans back again, bringing his cup to his lips and drinks.

“I may kill you a few more times before this week is through,” he continues, “but after that, if you pay attention, I won’t be able to. And when we’re done with that, and you’ve learned all I can show you about swords, I’ll teach you more than combat. There’s a lot more to living as long as we do then just ensuring you see the next dawn.”

“Like what?” Charles asks.

“Money,” Billy answers easily, gesturing to the house around him. “Investments. After that, you’ll need to learn about languages – two at least. I can teach you German and French; Spanish, too, if you don’t know it already. How to disappear and start anew somewhere else.”

The thought of it all took away Charles breath and, for the first time, Charles was left in _wonder_ at the sheer possibilities that awaited him. But then Billy was standing, draining what was left in his cup, and ushering Charles back outside and into the cold.

 

-

 

It took three very long, very hard weeks for the bladesmith to arrive.

The bladesmith was big and bulky, taller than Charles but shorter than Billy with a thick and jagged scar running across the side of his neck. He greeted Billy with a kiss to his cheek and a long string of excited Italian that Charles didn’t understand.

“Antony,” Billy greets, his face split into a wide smile Charles had never seen on his face before. They pull apart and Billy sweeps his arm at Charles, “Meet my student, Charles Vane.”

“Ah, the great pirate captain,” Antony says jovially in perfect English, and before Charles can get out a simple greeting, Antony has him swept up in a powerful hug.

“The fuck is going on?” Charles demands even as the breath is squeezed out of him, his eyes desperately searching Billy’s for some hint that he should be defending himself.

Billy just laughs.

“I have your sword,” Antony says, as if only just then remembering why he was there. He quickly turns away from Charles and back towards the large black Shire horse he’d ridden up on and unties a parcel from the saddle. He jerks his head at Billy and adds, “He sent me the measurements, so all should be well.”

Charles takes the parcel, but before he can unwrap it – Billy is moving them all inside. Winter was beginning to settle into spring, and the snow had melted away, but the cold still had a grip on the air around them.

Leading them into the study, Billy clears an area from his desk and says, “Here,” motioning for Charles to set the parcel down. Charles does, and finally sets to first untying the string that held the cloth in place, then removing the cloth itself – exposing the sword.

The cutlass’s handle was wrapped with hemp rope and braided with golden string, the pummel and hilt were a Damascus steel; the scabbard was made of plain wood with burnt-in wave designs – as if Charles were looking down at the softly roiling ocean in the early morning. The sword itself was highly polished, also made of Damascus steel, with a fuller running nearly the length of the blade – making it feather-light.

“This is beautiful,” Charles whispers, not wholly able to find his voice.

“As always,” Billy says, his voice nearly making Charles jump as he was standing much closer than Charles had realized, “you’ve outdone yourself, Antony.”

Antony, leaning across the desk, says, “I’m amazing, I know.”

Charles looks up and Antony meets his eyes. “How much do I owe you?” he asks.

Antony snorts and waves a casual hand at Billy, “It’s been paid for.”

Charles looks over his shoulder, to where Billy was standing _just_ behind him – their sudden closeness making Charles breath hitch. “How much do I owe _you_?” he forces himself ask.

“It’s a gift, Charles,” Billy says, meeting Charles’s eyes and holding his gaze. “From teacher to student.” Then he’s clearing his throat and taking a step back. “Enjoy that blade while it’s clean. We’ll be testing it tomorrow.”

“Can’t wait,” Charles says, trying but failing to keep the bite out of his voice.

 

-

 

Antony’s sword holds up spectacularly, it’s lightness allows Charles to move much more quickly than the heavy sword he’d been using. It’s not until he’s defended himself successfully five times against Billy’s onslaught that he wonders, “Was this your plan all along?”

“Maybe,” Billy answers with a smirk, darting back out of range of Charles’s swing, his eyes dancing with mirth and pride.

 

-

 

Antony stays three days before he saddles his Shire horse and waves good-bye. Billy is already turning towards the house when Antony beckons Charles over, leaning forward in his saddle before he says, “I normally don’t get involved with Arminius’s students.”

“Okay?” Charles asks, wondering what Antony meant.

“No,” Antony presses, putting a hand on Charles’s shoulder. “I’m telling you, Arminius doesn’t get me involved unless he really cares about his student. Take his lessons to heart, boy, he wants you to _live_.”

And before Charles can press him further, Antony is straightening up and turning his horse away and cantering off. (It’s not the last time he sees Antony – the Immortal turns out to be a near-constant presence, always just a letter away and almost always showing up with a child or three on his hip.)

 

-

 

Frustration and anger boils in Charles’s chest as he pulls himself to his feet.

“Again,” Billy orders, sweat beading on his forehead as he motions for Charles to get ready.

Charles raises his sword and attacks.

They clash together and, for the first time, Billy is the one being pushed back and back until he’s the one hitting the fence. Then suddenly he’s ducking underneath Charles’s blow and coming back up again _inside_ of Charles’s defenses – then Charles is the one against the fence, pinned there by Billy’s body weight.

And for one moment, as they breathe heavily into each other’s faces, their foreheads almost brushing, Charles isn’t sure if Billy’s going to reach up and snap his neck, or lean down and kiss him.

Then the dinner bell is ringing and Billy, almost hesitantly, steps back.

 

-

 

“You’re doing well,” Billy says, not looking up from his meal.

Charles lifts an eyebrow.

“I mean it,” Billy says, looking up this time to meet Charles’s eyes.

Charles snorts and looks away, pretending he doesn’t feel any pride at the praise.

 

-

 

When Charles goes to grab his sword the next morning, Billy stops him.

“Not today,” he says, even as his eyes run critically over Charles’s clothing. “I need you to put on some better clothes,” he picks at the mud-and-blood-stained shirt Charles wore for their training sessions, “we’re going into town.”

Charles bats Billy’s hand away and asks, “What for?”

“It’s time to sell the yearlings,” Billy answers, giving Charles’s shoulder a light shove back towards the direction of Charles’s room. He steps in close when Charles doesn’t move right away, making Charles step back, Billy immediately filling in that space again – it continues until Charles realizes Billy’s _herding_ him back to his room.

“What yearlings?” Charles asks, giving up and making his way back to his room, Billy just behind him.

“Horses, Charles,” Billy answers. “No matter how time progresses, people will always need a horse. So, welcome to part two of your training: horses.”

“I know how to ride a horse,” Charles says as he opens his bedroom door and heads towards his closet.

Billy leans against the door. “I’m not talking about riding,” he says. “I’m talking about raising, selling, buying. If you take to it and you think you can manage it, I’ll help you get your own stable started – wherever you like.”

Billy whispers the last part, as if it was something he was nervous about, and his tone makes Charles’s pause.

“Wherever?” Charles asks.

Billy gives him a _look_. “I have land in France and England that you’re welcome to.” Billy holds up a hand as Charles takes in a breath to protest. “It’s not a gift, Charles. Whatever proceeds you take in, I’ll get ten percent until whatever the land and start-up costs come out to.” Billy smirks. “Just because I have a lot of money doesn’t mean I’m not in the business of making more.”

Charles shakes his head, wondering if Billy was trying to make a joke or not, before he pulls a shirt off its hook and, after taking off the one he was already wearing, pulls it on.

“As tedious as it is,” Billy says, his voice suddenly coming from right over Charles’s shoulder, as Billy reaches into the closet, “you’ll need a vest and coat, too. You need to at least _look_ the part of a businessman.”

Charles breath hitches in his chest – he can feel the overwhelming heat of Billy’s body standing so close, yet still not touching – he glances over at Billy. “I’m just a pirate captain,” he says.

“Not today, you’re not,” Billy says, his voice low as he presses the vest and coat to Charles’s chest. “Today, you’re Mr. Charles Schmidt, selling yearling forest horses with your delightful business partner, Mr. William Lang.”

“Can I still call you ‘Billy’?” Charles asks.

“Call me whatever you want,” Billy says, pressing the clothes harder into Charles’s chest and forcing Charles back a step and against Billy. Then he lowers his voice and adds, “Just get dressed.” Then he’s moving away, seemingly taking all of the oxygen with him.

Charles glares at his back and ignores the way his pants feel tighter.

 

-

 

It takes most of the morning to gather the horses to be sold, six in all, and tether them to the wagon which was pulled by the two vanners Billy says he’d purchased when he first came back to Europe. The main well of the wagon itself was empty and Charles could only guess that they would be making purchases once they got to wherever it was they were going.

Billy tells Charles about the six horses – points out which of them were likely to garner the highest price based on their conformation and temperament. Then he’s leading Charles away from the wagon and to a carriage, where two large, long-legged black Oldenburgs were hitched.

“The colts always go higher than fillies,” he’s saying, settling into his spot in the carriage opposite Charles. “But,” he raises his hand, index finger pointing, “don’t let this fool you. A good mare is just as important to a bloodline as any stallion. Only idiots waste all their money on a single colt.”

“Why horses?” Charles asks. “You could just as easily spend your money buying up shops and taking a percentage from them – a horse can go lame or get sick.”

Billy shrugs. “There will always be a market for horses,” he says. He leans forward. “People are always inventing ways to get around – I’ve seen a lot and I know that the day is coming where it won’t be just horse teams we rely on to take us from place to place, or even to take wood from the forests – as my horses are trained to do. But even then, the wealthy will rely on a horse to show their power – be it through racing or dressage, these sports will never disappear.”

“And what then?” Charles asks.

“The forest horse is adaptable,” Billy says, “and so am I. Maybe one day my horses won’t be pulling lumber, but they would make excellent dressage horses or simple riding horses. They are strong and sturdy and beautiful. And that, my dear Charles, will ensure that they last the centuries.”

Charles cocks his head to the side, taking in Billy’s words as the carriage jolts forward and onward.

 

-

 

The market is noisy and the press of humanity around him was just this side of overwhelming for Charles, who had had only Billy and Adé and the various unnamed servants (who acted as ghosts, really, only in Charles line-of-sight for a sparse few seconds before disappearing again) for company for months, and he finds himself sticking closer to Billy’s side in spite of himself.

Billy’s six forest horses are the last up for the auction – and each of them go quickly and at a price that makes Charles want to hyperventilate.

“It’s about quality,” Billy says with a dismissive wave at Charles’s distress even as the servant who drove the wagon goes off to collect the money from the sales. “My estate has always produced the best, and people will pay.”

Billy himself doesn’t buy any more horses, but he does take Charles through the section of the market devoted to tack.

He introduces him to the best merchants, all of whom marvel about how young Billy looks despite pushing 40 and how happy they were to hear he was well and home after his years of travel. He walks Charles through the different bits, bridles, saddles; how each matched the other and could help or hinder a horse performing a specific function.

Then, when they’ve reached the edge of the market, and there was nothing else for them to look at, Charles asks, “Should we be heading back?”

Billy simply smirks down at Charles and points at a large tent, serving as a makeshift tavern only here for the horse market. “How about a drink instead?”

And _that_. That was an idea Charles could get behind – it was familiar. And as he walked into the tent, Billy himself only a half-step behind, Charles felt immediately at home. The tent was warm and raucous, spacious despite the number of bodies in it, with a talented fiddler and singer in the far corner, up by the bar.

They’re two beers in when Charles declares, “I still like rum better.”

Billy, quite emphatically, says, “Well, we’re changing that, _Igel_.”

Charles is about to ask what an _Igel_ is – he’s heard Billy call him it before, but it was usually followed with a swing of his sword, so Charles had never had a chance to ask – when suddenly Billy jerks to full alertness, his head swiveling towards the tent’s entrance. A split second later, after another man has walked through, Charles feel that little burst of static – the one he usually associates with Billy coming up on him from some distance away and when he had watched Antony ride up, except that this is dimmer and more muted.

(“We can feel the quickening of other Immortals,” Billy had told him. “Your quickening is your knowledge and power, and it manifests itself as lightning. You’ll see when you take your first head – when you take a head, you take a quickening and all of the other Immortal’s knowledge. The older they are, the more potent the quickening.

“Also with age,” Billy continued, “your range increases. You can sense other Immortals who are further away. Use it to avoid fights or prepare for one. It’ll be your choice.”)

“Do you know him?” Charles asks.

Billy, who’s already holding the other Immortal’s gaze, shakes his head, says, “No, I don’t.” Then he’s slowly standing, tossing more than enough coins down onto the table to cover their tab and then some, before he leads Charles to the other exit.

“What next?” Charles asks as they step out into the night.

“Depends,” Billy says, nonchalantly throwing his arm over Charles’s shoulder and pulling him close.

“On what?” Charles asks, trying not to respond too much to their sudden proximity.

“It’s likely the Immortal back there was looking for a fight,” Billy says. Then he pauses, suddenly ducking them behind a barn as he pushes Charles around and up against the wall and stepping in so close that they were almost flush together “Now, if you’re up for a fight, which knowing you, I gather you always are, I’ll leave him to you. Or, I’ll take him.”

 “And you’re going to just let me decide?” Charles asks, his lips just a hair away from brushing against Billy’s and _goddamnit_ this was infuriating because even if he’d wanted to pull Billy in closer, finally chase after whatever it was that had burning slowly between them, he couldn’t because Billy would always keep that extra half-inch between them. And he can’t deal with that right now, so he pushes against Billy, says, “Yes, yes, I want to fight him.”

But before Billy lets him go completely, he leans in close again, his lips moving against Charles’s ear, cheek, neck as he says, “Lead him to the north, there’s a field there and storm clouds are brewing – it’ll be good cover for the quickening. I’ll head back to the cart and grab your sword; it’ll be waiting for you there. I’ll be watching.”

And then, in the space of a blink, he’s gone, disappearing around the barn and into the crowd. Charles, feeling a sudden bite of cold with the absence of Billy’s heat, just grumbles and straightens out his vest and coat before heading to that northern field.

 

-

 

The fight is over quickly, and Charles is almost disappointed as he watches the other Immortal’s head fall to the ground. He feels a twinge of something and wonders if maybe Billy had been hyping up the quickening, wonders if that little jolt of static was all he was going to feel.

But then lightning flashes, illuminates the whole of the field and Charles briefly catches sights of Billy in the tree line, sitting bareback astride one of the Oldenburg horses who had pulled their carriage here. He’s about to call out, but the thunder – booming and all-encompassing – startles him back into silence.

As does the lightning sparking across the field, arcing from the headless body and into the dirt, over and over as the arcs grow larger, taller. The body itself starts to glow and Charles can only watch, fascinated.

Another flash of lightning and boom of thunder – and then something deep inside of Charles _twists_ and an arc of lightning from the body connects with Charles and it _hurts_. Then there’s another flash of lightning, only this time – the bolt hits Charles, it slams into him and suddenly Charles is filled with a quick succession of memories, and he’s unable to process them individually but he _knows_ what they are, what they contain, and he just _feels so much,_ and he can hear himself screaming.

Then, just as quickly as it started – it’s all over and Charles falls to his knees, trying desperately to catch his breath as his body adjusts to the new memories, new knowledge, and the sensations of it all.

He hears approaching footsteps and grabs his sword, demands, “ _Qui va là?_ ”

“ _C’est moi_ ,” Billy says.

And Charles looks up, sees Billy standing there with that horse at his side. “ _Qu'est-ce que j'ai dis?_ ” he asks.

Billy smirks, kneels down in front of Charles, says, “You just asked me who I was. I told you it was me.” Then he chuckles outright and helps Charles to his feet. “It looks like our Immortal was French.”

“ _Merde_ ,” Charles curses, then he shakes his head but doesn’t push Billy away.

Billy just wraps his arms around Charles, “It’ll wear off soon,” he says. “His quickening just needs time to settle with yours.”

“Merde,” Charles repeats.

“Yeah, _shit_ ,” Billy says, sounding indulgent as he gently takes Charles’s sword and guides Charles over and onto the horse. Charles would protest the treatment, but he can barely make sense of the words inside his head, so he lets Billy handle him as he pleases.

 

-

 

The road home is miserable, but not for the bumpy road.

There is lightning in Charles’s veins, humming under his skin, filling him to the brink with an _excess_ of energy he doesn’t know what to do with. Especially not when Billy is making a pointed effort to not touch him, to not look at him.

Then they are home and Charles is standing still in front of The House, as Billy calls it, and the carriage is driving away, towards the stables, and Charles himself can’t move.

“This is _fucked_ ,” Charles curses, running both of his hands through his hair.

Billy takes a step back, towards the front door.

“Charles,” he starts, but his voice is cracked, as if he’s bitten down on whatever it was he wants to say.

Charles glares.

Then Billy’s stepping back in close, grabbing Charles by the wrists – the contact sending another jolt of _something_ through Charles that he can’t quite name. Billy says, “I can help, but I don’t know if you’d appreciate it come dawn.”

 _Enough_ , Charles thinks. Except suddenly he’s not sure if he’s said that aloud because there’s a flash of concern in Billy eyes, but it’s gone because then Charles is crashing their mouth together.

Billy growls into the kiss, moves his hands from Charles’s wrists to his hair and grips him tightly into place, even as Charles’s hands move to Billy’s waist and pull him so that they are flushed together – Charles’s half-hardness filling out to full as one of Billy’s hands moves from his hair to back, keeping them pressed close.

They part briefly and only so Billy could drag Charles to his own room – larger and darker than Charles’s own, its walls filled with fine paintings of battles long past and gilded swords and tapestries of trapped unicorns, and that’s all Charles sees until he’s being pushed backwards onto a bed and Billy is stretching himself over him.

Billy curses in German, words Charles has lately become familiar with, as he effortlessly discards their clothes until, with a spit-slicked hand, Billy grips them both with one hand and begins pumping his wrist. He nips and sucks at Charles’s neck, his clavicle, his mouth – whatever he can reach – until Charles is bucking under him, begging for something in a language he doesn’t know.

Then Billy’s hand is twisting hard and his thumb slides roughly over his slit and Charles lets out a cry and comes on his own stomach; Billy following not long after as he kisses Charles hotly, his tongue licking into Charles’s mouth as they both ride out their orgasms.

For a long moment, they breathe the same air, Billy keeping himself propped over Charles as he gently loosens his grips on their slowly softening cocks. Then, with a gentle kiss to the side of Charles’s mouth, he starts to move away – but Charles swings an arm around his neck and holds him in place, spreading his legs more so Billy could settle more easily between them.

“I will take every head of every Immortal if that’s what it takes to do this with you again,” Charles says, as soon as he can figure out the words in English.

“That won’t be necessary,” Billy says, settling his full weight against Charles – a welcomed heaviness Charles didn’t realize he had been aching for – before he presses another kiss to Charles’s mouth, soft and sweet before Charles adds tongue, and thrusts his hips upward just slightly, gauging Billy’s reaction.

Billy just laughs, places a hand on Charles’s thigh to still him.

“Easy, _Igel_ ,” he says, “we have time.”

And, as it turned out, they did – because Charles doesn’t leave the estate that year, nor the year after, nor the year after that.

 

-z-

 

End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Igel_ is German for hedgehog and is capitalized because German grammar demands it.


End file.
